


Lovers, Forget Your Love

by a_sinking_star



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Infidelity, F/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 02:17:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21245864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_sinking_star/pseuds/a_sinking_star
Summary: Written for the ASOIAF Kink Meme prompt “Brandon/Catelyn, Catelyn/Ned – AU: Brandon points out to his brother that for someone who acts so high-and-mighty-more-honourable-than-everyone-else, he doesn’t hide that he wants to fuck Brandon’s wife very well.”





	Lovers, Forget Your Love

He watches her constantly.

His goodsister, the Lady of Winterfell—whenever she enters a room his eye is drawn to her like a wave is to the shore. It has been this way since the beginning, since she first rode through the castle gates three years ago while he stood beside his brothers in the courtyard to welcome her. Her squirming little son had been bound to her chest securely in a shawl, and she had sat astride her horse like a man with her hood drawn up and snow dusting the shoulders of her cloak. Ned had been holding his own boy in his arms; he had watched her do a little double take as she noticed the babe and the resemblance between father and son. Then she had noticed him watching her reaction, and had blushed so prettily that he forgot to be offended on Jon’s behalf.

She has warmed to Jon over the years, just as she has warmed to Ned. Robb and Jon are close as brothers; they have been sleeping in the same bed, like Ned and Brandon once did, since Jon became old enough to clamber out of his cot, toddle down the hall to the nursery, and climb into Robb’s own little bed. Even before then, they were never so happy as when they were put down on the nursery floor together to play with their carved toys and wooden blocks. Ned knows Catelyn could never refuse her son anything or anyone he clearly loves so much. And so she has taken Ned’s son under her wing, kissing both boys’ downy hair at bedtime and singing them lullabies when they cannot sleep. Jon is just as likely to go to her with his bruises and scraped knees as he is to his father, and she soothes him just as gently. Ned could love her for that alone.

He could love her for a thousand other things, too—for the little furrow that appears between her brows when she concentrates, for the long ribbon of auburn hair down her back that gleams even in the dimmest light. For the way that she can soothe Brandon’s fits of temper, coax Ned into conversation, and tease Benjen out of his melancholy moments. For the way her smile lights up her face.

Ned had still felt half a boy the day that she arrived, for all that he had ended a siege and killed men in battle and putatively fathered a son. Now he is nearly three-and-twenty, a man grown beyond a doubt, and he knows he should have wed and settled himself into a holdfast long ago. Even Benjen has left home to make a new life at the Wall. And yet Ned stays in Winterfell; he hunts in the wolfswood and trains in the yard and busies himself with the aspects of lordship that do not interest his brother. He can come up with any number of excuses for his presence here, most of them involving Jon: no wife of Ned’s could possibly be expected to show him any kindness, the Winterfell household has become so fond of him, it would be cruel to separate him from Robb. And what does Ned have to offer a wife, anyway? He is a second son with a bastard to care for; he can promise a woman nothing besides an austere life in some distant holdfast, the shame of Jon’s presence, and his own taciturn company.

And so, as winter wanes, he stays. Robb and Jon have learned to walk, and then to run and swim and climb. His most treasured memories are of the days when the boys were taking their first steps, when he would sit on the nursery floor opposite Catelyn and they would let their sweet babes toddle between them, always with either his hands or hers to cling to. Now that the weather is less brutal, the four of them are often out of doors together. Catelyn taught the boys to swim in the hot springs earlier this year, and when Ned confessed he himself could do little more than paddle about weakly, she taught him, too. That had been its own special kind of sweet torture—seeing her stripped to her shift not an arm’s length away from him in the water, close enough for him to touch, as she talked him through the different strokes. The swell of her breasts, the ladder of her ribs, the curve of her waist and hips had been all too obvious through the waterlogged linen of her garments, and when she rose from the pools after a lesson he could see the way her nipples hardened in the cool evening air. He often thanks the gods for giving him such a dour, inscrutable face. At least she does not know what shameful, filthy thoughts filled his mind at the sight of her; at least he has not lost the sisterly affection that she, in her innocence, continues to give him.

When she discovers that she is with child again, Ned is the second person she tells—after Brandon, of course, but before even the maester. Brandon makes the announcement at dinner in the Great Hall that very night. He is beaming, delighted, and more demonstrative than ever with his wife, holding her far closer than is proper on the dance floor, stealing kisses and making her blush that same shade of pink that first caught Ned’s eye. Her smile lights up the room.

Every day Ned prays in the godswood for her health and the child’s. Every day he begs the gods to take the taint of envy from the happiness he feels for her.

He has never seen her so joyful. Her smiles become ever more frequent, her hair grows thicker and more lustrous, and her breasts are visibly fuller above the necklines of her gowns, as much as he hates himself for noticing. Each day she seems to glow a little more from within, although she confesses to him privately that she is often overtired and that her back aches constantly. He does what he can to ease her burden, taking whatever minor tasks she is willing to relinquish off her hands and entertaining the boys with trips to the yard to watch the men train so she can rest without their pestering her. She thanks him profusely for each small favour and insists she wants for nothing—but still, he worries for her. One day he catches sight of the seven little wood-carved figurines she keeps above the mantelpiece in her chambers, and he realizes that there is, in fact, something he can do for her. Brandon agrees readily enough when he broaches the idea, and soon the workmen have started construction on the only sept north of White Harbour. All of Winterfell is sworn to keep the project a secret from its lady. Brandon is the one to show it to her when it is finished, of course, but after dinner that evening, Catelyn grips Ned’s hand before she leaves the hall.

“I know it was your idea,” she says. “I cannot possibly thank you enough.”

As the moons pass and her belly swells noticeably beneath the folds of her skirts, Brandon begins spending more and more time away from Winterfell. Ned does not ask him why. He hears a laundress whisper once that Lord Stark is avoiding his lady’s bed and that she must miss him sorely, but if Catelyn is lonely or restless, she hides it from him well. He can hardly ask her about it. Neither of them would ever speak an ill word about Brandon, and the coldness of her bed is hardly Ned’s concern.

Catelyn’s pains begin weeks early, while Brandon is in Barrowton. Ned orders the grooms to saddle the fastest horses in the stable and sends Winterfell’s best riders after him; then he sits in the nursery with the boys and tries to soothe their impatience. Neither he nor Catelyn has told them that women can die in childbed—they are still so young—but they can sense his fear and it makes them fearful, too. By nightfall, Robb is tearful and Jon has stopped speaking altogether. Eventually, Jon falls asleep with his head on Ned’s lap, but Robb is wakeful and agitated through the night. Ned doubts he has ever been separated from his mother for so long before. As for himself, he feels Catelyn’s absence like a physical ache.

At daybreak, one of Catelyn’s maids sends word, and Ned takes the boys to meet the newest member of their family. They find Catelyn abed looking fragile and bloodless, her hair braided back and damp with sweat. But her face is alight with tenderness, and for a moment Ned cannot speak or move. The boys have no such compunctions, of course; before Ned can warn them to be gentle, they have climbed onto her bed on either side of her and Catelyn is laughing at their eagerness. The little bundle in her arms squirms and makes a tiny mewling sound. _A daughter, _the maid had told them. _A healthy girl. _Catelyn adjusts the folds of swaddling so the boys can see the new babe’s face.

Then she smiles up at Ned, still frozen in the doorway, and beckons him closer. “Would you like to hold her?”

Wordlessly, he makes a cradle of his arms, and Catelyn lays her babe against them. She is so small Ned could likely hold her in cupped hands. Like Robb, she has her mother’s eyes.

“She is the image of you, my lady,” he says in wonder. “The gods have blessed her.”

“I meant to call her Arya, for your grandmother,” Catelyn says, still smiling. She runs her hand through Robb’s curls. “But now that I see her, I think Sansa suits her better.”

“Sansa.” The word tastes small and sweet. “A good Stark name.”

The babe nestles closer to him as he meets Catelyn’s eyes. “I would give my life for her,” he says roughly.

He sees it on her face then—that he has gone too far and said too much. Quickly, he hands Sansa back to her and excuses himself. Later, he will not remember leaving the Great Keep or entering the godswood, but he will never forget falling to his knees before the heart tree and begging the gods for mercy. _Please, please do not take her friendship from me. Please, please let her forgive. Let her forgive a foolish man his improper feelings—_

Just then, he hears faint shouting from the outer walls. _Brandon, _he thinks. He makes himself stand up.

The courtyard is bustling by the time Ned arrives, a crowd gathering around Brandon as he vaults off his horse just inside the gates and hands his mount off to a stable boy. Vayon Poole is at his side, no doubt giving him the news. Brandon’s laugh rings out—a sound of pure, untainted joy. Ned sees Poole clap Brandon on the back, sees the pride writ clear across his brother’s face. Never before has Ned felt such rage.

“Ned!” Brandon calls out. “Have you met my daughter yet?”

Ned arranges his features into some semblance of a smile. “Aye,” he says. “She’s a beauty.” He falls into step beside his brother as Brandon heads inside, pulling his riding gloves off as he goes. It has always been this way, Ned thinks—Brandon has set the pace and Ned has followed.

Perhaps that is why Brandon looks so surprised when Ned grips his shoulder and pulls him to a halt once they are within the relative privacy of the Great Keep.

“You ought to be ashamed yourself,” Ned says bluntly. “Off doing the gods know what with the gods know who while your own wife is in childbed.”

Brandon shrugs his hand off. “I came as soon as I heard, did I not?”

“You should never have left her in the first place!” Ned cannot remember the last time he raised his voice at his brother so. “Did you not stop and think for an instant that this would hurt her? Did you not realize that others would notice and comment upon it? You ought to have more regard for your own honour and—”

“You know, Ned, for someone who acts so high-and-might-more-honourable-than-everyone-else, you really don’t hide that you want to fuck my wife very well.”

And really, there is not much Ned can say in response to that.

His brother has known him longer than anyone else left living at this point, so in hindsight it is hardly surprising that Brandon can see through all Ned’s pretences on the matter, to the dark, ugly truth he has kept hidden below. He does want to lie with his brother’s own wife. He wants to stroke her hair and kiss the pulse points at her wrists and bury his face between her breasts. He wants it all—the first dance after a feast, the seat beside hers, the babes she bears. He wants to drift off to sleep with his arms tight around her and her head resting on his chest. _Hoster Tully’s firstborn daughter. Brandon Stark’s own wife. The pride of the riverlands, the Lady of Winterfell. She is not for the likes of me. _

“Does she know?” Ned asks hoarsely. Somehow, that is still the most important thing. He could not bear it if he made her hate him.

“Cat? Of course not. She thinks you hang the moon in the sky.”

“Please don’t tell her.” His voice sounds weak to his own ears.

“I don’t intend to. Why bother her with all this? My little southron bride. I wouldn’t have thought her your type.” Brandon laughs then, a sharp and cruel sound. “You certainly aren’t hers. You wouldn’t know what to do with her if you had her.”

Something in Ned’s face just then must make him soften, because his anger dissipates as suddenly as it came and his next words are gentle.

“Look, Ned, it’s likely my fault, for letting you stay here this long alone. You should have a family of your own. Any of my lords would be glad to match you with one of their daughters—”

It is unthinkable. To wed some Glover or Manderly maiden, knowing full well he could never care for her the way he cares for his brother’s own wife? And what would become of Jon? Ned is already shaking his head, but Brandon seems to have read his mind. “You could always leave your boy here,” he says. “He would be in good hands. Cat would take care of him.”

“I am his father. He is my responsibility, not hers,” Ned says sharply. Sometimes, in his moments of weakness, he has pretended otherwise—pretended that she is Jon’s mother, that Robb is his own son. That they live far away from here, in a little keep of their own. Catelyn would feel the cold dearly without Winterfell’s hot springs within the walls to heat them, of course, but he would hold her close beneath a pile of furs and keep her warm. _Bury that thought. Bury it deep. _“I will leave,” he says slowly. He will leave Cat and Brandon and everyone else in Winterfell as his mother and father and sister have left him. Even Robert left him, in a sense, that day they looked upon the bodies of the slain Targaryen babes together. Perhaps, by now, he should be more skilled at saying goodbye. “I know you have holdfasts that need to be manned. I can set up a household of my own. And perhaps, in a few moons, we can discuss a betrothal. But not yet. Please.”

Brandon regards him carefully. “Fine,” he says. “We will settle the details later. Now I need to meet my daughter.”

Ned watches him take the stairs two at a time. He stands there in the entryway for a long time, afterwards.

Catelyn finds him by the heart tree the next morning. That is unusual in and of itself—Catelyn rarely ventures this deep into the godswood without good reason, and Ned is not certain she should even be out of bed so soon after a birth. And even more unusually, she is alone, with little Sansa and the boys nowhere in sight.

_Danger, _he thinks, as she kneels down beside him. _Danger lies that way. _But he can hardly send her away. This is her home, and he is the one intruding.

“Brandon says you plan to leave,” she says quietly. Perhaps he is imagining it, but it seems her voice wavers a little on the last word. “Is it true?”

“Aye.” He cannot look at her. He can hardly breathe. “It is past time, my lady.

“But why now? And what of Jon?”

“He will come with me. At least for now. He will miss everyone here dearly, I know, but he will grow used to the separation, in time.” _As I will not. _

Almost silently, she begins to cry, and Ned clenches his hands into fists to keep himself from reaching for her. “You will write to me, will you not?”

“If you wish,” he says, careful to keep his voice neutral. She wipes angrily at her tears.

For a while, it is silent in the godswood.

When a few flakes of snow begin to fall, he rises and helps Catelyn to her feet. “You should not be out here, my lady,” he rebukes her gently. “You should be inside with your babe.”

She takes a steadying breath. Her smile is forced.

She leans heavily on his arm as they make their way out of the godswood, clearly more weakened by Sansa’s birth than she is willing to let on. They are nearly out from under the shadow of the trees before she speaks again.

“I think, in another world, you and I would have been a good match,” she says quietly. Her voice is thoughtful, almost casual, but his whole body feels set ablaze by her words. That other world is so close he can almost taste it. He could reach for her so easily, to stroke her hair and face and mouth, to steal kisses to take with him when he rides north tomorrow. He could speak the words that have festered beneath his skin since she first rode through the gates of Winterfell. _Aye, _he could say. _I would have cherished you well._

Instead, they both keep walking.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the eponymous poem by Robert Frost.
> 
> Thanks for reading – feedback is always appreciated!


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